


Personal Andraste

by hyphyp



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fictional Blasphemy, Humor, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Pre-Canon, Religious Themes, this is very silly, this probably counts as actual blasphemy come to think of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyphyp/pseuds/hyphyp
Summary: Dorian may only be pretending to be a chantry cleric, but he has a fairly strong suspicion that the Iron Bull's not really a born again Andrastian convert, either.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 26
Kudos: 72





	Personal Andraste

When Dorian catches wind that his father's hired goons have managed to track him down in northern Orlais, he does the only sensible thing and finds the nearest man to get naked with.

Ha! Well, that’s how he’ll tell it later, anyway.

What actually happens is this: he's sharing a very gloomy drink with a chantry cleric in a small town tavern, not entirely by choice. Dorian had been minding his own morose business quite adequately, with the help of a nearly undrinkable mug of ale, when the cleric came wearily slouching in, immediately identified Dorian as a comrade in suffering, and slunk over to make misery into company.

“It's not that I don't believe even a little in the Maker,” the cleric - Brother Ladislaw of all things - is saying, “and Andraste was definitely blessed.”

Dorian tries to work out how Andraste could be more blessed by the Maker than the Maker is real, but the alcohol is making his head a bit foggy. He wishes the cleric would spend more time drowning his sorrows and less time airing them. Not that he hasn't done plenty of the former.

“Only, they already have so many people, don't they?” Brother Ladislaw goes on. “Brothers and Sisters and Mothers and…”

He trails off, brows scrunched together in confusion.

“Divines,” Dorian offers, taking pity.

“Well, there's just one of them, isn't there?” Brother Ladislaw says.

Oh, dear, Dorian thinks, and takes a silent drink.

“But my point is,” the Brother goes on. “My point is…”

He seems to forget his point at the same time that he remembers his overpriced pig swill, because he takes a few enthusiastic gulps of it. Then he belches colorfully and drops his head onto the table.

Ah, the charms of the south.

Dorian pats his arm comfortingly. He's not a complete monster, after all, although he is a rather bored one. He's just opening his mouth to suggest that the poor Brother find someone more suited to confession - a prostitute or chantry sister, for example - when an interesting conversation pricks his ears from a nearby table.

“They said they were apostate hunters, although none of them looked like templars,” a rough-looking peasant is saying to two other equally hardened locals. “Strange to be hunting mages without a templar on your side.”

“Bounty hunters, probably,” one of his tablemates offers. “Heard there was a mercenary band in the area. Like as anything they’re working together.”

“Still, damned stupid, in my opinion,” the first one says. “What do y' do when the mage gets all - ” He makes an illustrative wiggling motion with his fingers.

Dorian supposes this neatly summarizes everything these southern dunderheads understand about the sublime and intricate complexities of magic, because the speaker's friends both make unsettled grunting noises of agreement.

“Did they say who they were after?” the third man asks. “Not sure I like the idea of an apostate lurking about.”

“Some fancy highborn,” the first man says. He lowers his voice so that Dorian has to lean somewhat more obviously than he would like to hear the rest. “They even said he was from Tevinter, if you can believe it.”

The other two hiss (which is the customary southern response to the word 'Tevinter') and Dorian straightens abruptly in his seat.

That's not good. That's very not good, indeed.

Brother Ladislaw chooses this moment to valiantly raise his heavy head.

“My point,” he finally recalls, “is that surely the Maker doesn't need me in particular. Surely He can make do with everyone He's already got.”

“That does sound reasonable,” Dorian says distractedly, trying to figure out how best to escape the tavern without drawing attention to himself.

He's taken up an inconspicuous corner table, and Brother Ladislaw’s hunched form is helpfully blocking him from view, but he doubts this hiding spot will withstand the scrutiny of several bounty hunters specifically on the lookout for him.

“It's my family, really, that wants me to join the Chantry,” the Brother prattles on. “My father says we all must do our duty to spread the word of the Maker, only he's still a cobbler, isn't he? And I'd rather - ” He hiccups. “I'd rather be a taxidermist.”

This is so unlikely that Dorian actually pauses in the middle of his panic to look at Brother Ladislaw fully for the first time.

“What, really? A taxidermist?”

“Yes,” the Brother says eagerly. “I love animals. And dead things. Making 'em look right. It's peaceful. Surely the Holy Lady would understand that.”

“Er, yes,” Dorian says.

Even as a necromancer, he's a little unnerved. He examines Ladislaw warily for a moment. As he takes in the cleric's clothes - that ghastly, shapeless chantry uniform - a thought suddenly occurs to him.

“Say, Brother Ladislaw,” he begins.

“Laddy's fine.”

“Oh, yes, well - Laddy.” Dorian clears his throat. “I don't see why you can't be a taxidermist after all. If that's what you want, maybe the Maker wills it.”

Laddy's face lights up hopefully.

“You really think so?”

“Of course I do,” Dorian says. “There aren't only clerics in the Maker's plan. There are cobblers, like your father. And there must be - taxidermists, too, or so it seems to me. What's to stop you, really, from shedding those robes of yours and chasing after your dreams?”

Laddy's face suddenly falls again at that.

“They're expecting me at the town chantry,” he says, crestfallen. “This very morning, in fact.”

Dorian refrains from pointing out that it is now well into the afternoon.

“That is a problem,” he says instead. “However, I might just have a solution. What if - ” He licks his lips. “What if you and I swapped our robes, and I went to the chantry instead? Just long enough for you to leave town, of course.”

The look Laddy gives Dorian is nearly worshipful. Dorian experiences a brief flare of guilt at the duplicity, but, really, no one would confuse poor Laddy for a Tevinter mage, no matter what he was wearing. It's a win-win scenario. No one gets hurt.

“You would do that?” Laddy asks breathlessly. “For a stranger like me?”

“None of us are strangers to the Maker's grace,” Dorian says magnanimously.

“Andraste bless you, ser,” Brother Ladislaw says, giving his final benediction.

Then they're in the tavern cellar quickly swapping robes.

It's actually the least scandalous mutual clothes-shedding that he’s ever partaken in, Dorian thinks, rolling on the thick woolen stockings (they itch, but at least they’re warm). There hasn't been even a little groping, not that he'd care to with the flat-faced former cleric who drunkenly fumbles to fasten the buckles of Dorian's robes over his own shoulder.

Dorian allows himself one brief self-pitying sigh as he watches. Those robes had looked so nice on him, and he's not sure that even his sculpted features can improve the dreary cleric's garb he now wears. Still, with not only bounty hunters on his trail but potentially a whole band of mercenaries - the things his father thinks of, really - sacrifices must be made. At least it won't be for long.

“Now remember,” Dorian says, placing a steadying hand on Laddy's wobbling shoulder. “You're not Brother Ladislaw, you're Manfred, the apprentice taxidermist, on your way to your apprenticeship in Val Chevin. No matter who asks, you've never been a cleric. We've never even met.”

“I don't even - hic - believe in the Maker,” Laddy says with a firm nod.

“Well, you needn't take it quite so far.”

“No, it's true,” he says. “Andraste forgive me, I don't believe.”

Dorian hesitates, holds his tongue, and gives Laddy a bracing pat.

It's possible he's also doing the chantry a favor.

No one in the tavern seems to have noticed their swap, or at least they know how to keep their mouths shut. Dorian shoos the newly anointed Manfred out and waits a careful fifteen minutes before settling his tab. 

Just in time, too.

As he straightens his new robes and prepares to leave, a group of four burly men in armor come stomping in. They glare around the tavern for a minute, hands on their swords, before approaching the counter.

“Heard there was a man in here who looked like he might be an apostate,” one of them says to the barmaid.

“I don’t know anything about that,” she says warily.

The four bounty hunters loom over her in a wall of chainmail and glaring. She shrinks a little bit, going even quieter, until one of them offers her a couple of coins and what passes as a smile exclusively in dark alleyways and the Magisterium.

“Well,” she says, taking the coin. “There was a man in here who was wearing robes not long ago, if that’s what you mean. If you hurry you might catch up to him on the road.”

They grunt their thanks, and then turn to leave, eyes sliding right over Dorian. They barely seem to register his presence. One of the bounty hunters nods absently at him and Dorian smiles benignly, hoping it comes across as holy rather than wholly suspicious.

He watches them go from the front steps of the tavern, feeling a strange mix of smug relief and offended disappointment. His impromptu disguise has worked rather too well. That he can pass so easily for some dull backcountry cleric - but, then, maybe these bounty hunters aren’t very smart. It’s probably not a good idea to stick around and find out. Time to go.

So thinking, he turns and starts a quick trot down the road in the opposite direction. He doesn’t get very far before a shrill voice is in his ear.

“Brother Ladislaw!” a woman is snapping.

Kaffas, Dorian thinks, slowly turning around.

“I’m sorry, dear Sister, but you have the wrong man,” he says to the angry woman in chantry robes standing before him.

She’s middle-aged, much shorter than him, with the sturdy sort of body and beefy arms that servants and misbehaving children fear all throughout the world. Her glare has the edge of a well-tended sword.

“Is that so?” she asks in a chilly tone. “And, pray, tell me who else might you be, when we’ve been anticipating your arrival in our humble town on this very day, and haven’t seen hide nor hair of another chantry man for six whole months?”

Dorian clears his throat. His hands suddenly sting with the old memories of many Circle Enchanters, all of them rapping at his knuckles.

“Be that as the case may be - ” he begins.

The Sister grabs his elbow in a bruising grip and drags him bodily toward the chantry.

“I am Sister Eusillina,” she tells him. “Mother Fayette is the head of the chantry, but you’ll answer to me. We’ll begin you on your duties straight away, so I hope you’ve come prepared to work.”

“Surely, good woman - ” he starts to protest.

“You’ve kept us waiting long enough, don’t you think?” Sister Eusillina interrupts. “Breakfast is at dawn each morning. If you miss it, you won’t eat until evening, so it will be in your own best interest to learn some punctuality. Then we do morning prayers. Afterward, we tend to the chantry - cleaning and repairs - and to the garden and chickens.”

“The chickens,” Dorian repeats, alarmed.

“I don’t know what it’s like where you took your vows,” Sister Eusillina says, “but here we must tend to ourselves as well as our flock. We grow our own food and live our lives humbly as part of the people, not lazing around in comfort like the Empress herself. We’ll put some muscle on you straight away, I’ve no doubt of that.”

‘Grow our own food,’ Dorian mouths in horror.

“Then, in the afternoon, once the morning chores are finished,” Sister Eusillina, sweet Maker, continues, “we do our chantry duties, giving benedictions and alms and comforts as our flock requires. We recite a portion of the Chant three times daily, at Mother Fayette’s discretion. After the final recitation, we begin our afternoon chores. Then we cook and distribute meals for the poor. Only once they have all been fed do we make supper for ourselves, and after supper is a time for private prayer and contemplation. Then, bed. One of us must remain in the chantry all night long, of course, as the doors of our holy sanctuary never close. The duty rotates day by day. We do not sleep until after sundown, and then we are up again at dawn.”

Forget giving Brother Ladislaw a chance to chase his dreams, Dorian may have saved his life. Certainly his own now seems to be in peril.

“And how many Brothers and Sisters does our wonderful little chantry have?” Dorian ventures to ask.

“Three,” Sister Eusillina says.

“Three,” Dorian repeats.

“Three,” the Sister confirms. “Mother Fayette, myself, and now you.”

“Spectacular,” Dorian says in a tone that conveys quite the opposite sentiment.

She bullies him into the tiny chapel. A few people, kneeling in prayer before a large stone statue of Andraste, look up as they enter. A tiny elderly woman in chantry robes, nearly bent in half from age, is standing on a small dias, reciting from the Canticle of Benedictions in a voice so weathered that Dorian can practically feel the parchment of ancient tomes crumbling beneath his fingers as she speaks.

Two, he corrects silently. There will certainly only be two people toiling in the garden at dawn each morning. Mother Fayette looks like she’ll fall over in a stiff breeze.

He’ll have to escape the very first chance he gets. The moment the Sister’s back is turned, he’ll have to make a run for it, nevermind his dignity.

Sister Eusillina, however, seems unlikely to give him an opportunity.

As it’s now late afternoon, it’s time to make and serve meals for the poor. There are a lot of poor people in this tiny town in the middle of nowhere Orlais, as it turns out. Dorian is set to work chopping, boiling, kneading, stirring, measuring, pouring, fetching, dishing, and then, worst of all, cleaning, all under the sharp eyes of Sister Eusillina, who does not hesitate to reprimand his many mistakes with a sharp word and a whack to the back of his head.

By the time they’ve finished serving, put tomorrow’s bread in the oven, and Dorian is drying the last of the enormous stew pots, his arms are aching, his stomach is rumbling, and the remaining alcohol has burned off. Having kept himself in a perpetual state of inebriation almost since he fled his family’s estate in Qarinus, he finds himself almost more displeased by this last point than anything else that’s happened so far today.

Mother Fayette joins them for supper, which they make anew for themselves, although their fare is more meager than what they served to the poor. Dorian points this out with some annoyance, and receives another whack over the head for it.

“We aren’t a wealthy chantry,” Sister Eusillina scolds him. “We use our funds for the sake of those who need it most, not ourselves.”

“Surely,” Dorian mutters, the back of his head now thoroughly sore, “there’s enough left over for something more than - this.” 

He gestures at the slice of moist, beige loaf on his plate. It was introduced to him merely as ‘scrapple,’ and consists entirely of cornmeal and meat scraps of indeterminate origin.

“You’re lucky there’s meat at all today,” Sister Eusillina scolds him. “Eat it and be grateful.”

Mother Fayette reaches out and puts a hand on his knee.

“You are such a fine young man,” she croaks in a thick Orlesian accent. He can hardly see her eyes through all her wrinkles. “Such a darling boy. We are so…” She pats his knee for several long, silent beats. At last she seems to snap out of whatever momentary trance has taken her and finishes, “We are so blessed to have you here with us.”

Dorian glances nervously at Sister Eusillina. Mother Fayette appears perpetually on the verge of falling over dead. Sister Eusillina only glares.

“Don’t let it go to waste,” she orders him.

Dorian eats it, manages to keep it down, and longs more than ever for the familiar comforts of home. There is no alcohol in the chantry.

After supper, they clean again, and then sweep the whole building, only for them to kneel stiffly on the stone floor for one long hour of evening contemplation, which, at the very least, they do in silence. By the time it’s time for bed, Dorian almost doesn’t care that their sleeping quarters consist of three rickety old cots crammed in a storage room with a foul smelling chamber pot and very little ventilation, except that he does. He desperately cares.

“I will keep the vigil tonight,” Sister Eusillina says. “You will take tomorrow. Mother Fayette will sit the night after.”

“Yes, fine, very well,” Dorian says, sinking onto his cot. 

He has no intention of being here that long, of course. With any luck, he’ll be gone before the night is through.

Luck fails him.

After lying awake staring blankly at the ceiling for a few tedious hours, he finally dares to rise from his bed and tiptoe out of the bedroom into the chantry, hoping to sneak past Sister Eusillina and make a break for it. She spots him at once.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demands.

“To relieve myself, if you must know,” Dorian says, drawing himself up elegantly, as if he hadn’t been hunched over in an obvious sneak. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“There’s a chamber pot in the dormitory,” Sister Eusillina says.

Dorian withholds a scoff at the word ‘dormitory’ and says, “Oh really? I didn’t see one.”

Sister Eusillina’s look could wilt flowers.

“I’ll just look again, shall I?” Dorian says, then turns around and marches back into the bedroom.

He gets very little sleep that night, tossing and turning on the uncomfortable cot. It’s still dark out when Mother Fayette rises, waking him from a shallow sleep. He rises with her, dreading the consequences of missing breakfast.

Breakfast consists of bread and cheese, which is at least edible. Then the chores begin. They sweep the chantry, dust all its nooks and crannies, and replace the candles that have gone out in the night. In the garden, they weed and water the vegetables, feed and water the sad, thin chickens, gather their few eggs, and Dorian weeps to find himself covered in feathers, dirt, and chicken shit. Sister Eusillina sets him to work tilling a plot for cabbages while she gathers the ripe vegetables and Mother Fayette stands in the chicken yard, patting the birds’ little heads and muttering blessings to them.

By the time all of this is done, the first worshipers have begun to arrive, which is where Dorian’s real trouble begins.

Of course, he has some familiarity with the Chant of Light. His parents raised him with the sort of _laissez-faire_ Andrastianism that all Tevinters to some extent share, although it had, of course, been Tevinter’s version of Andrastianism. He knows enough to have a relatively intelligent discussion of the Chant’s most important points, and to understand Chantry politics. But the actual practicalities of being a devout southern Chanter - beyond expressing hysterical terror and hatred at just the mere mention of magic - rather escape him.

He mumbles his way somewhat half-heartedly through the first recitation of the day - something from Transfigurations. Sister Eusillina squints at him angrily every time he misses a phrase or has to clear his throat in the middle of a passage. Mother Fayette appears not to notice.

Then he hovers awkwardly as the two women give blessings to the parishioners. The locals give him curious looks, and a few of them greet him, but luckily no one seems eager to seek his counsel on the Divine Word, so he busies himself by pulling out a worn volume of the Chant and pretending for all the world to be most ardently studying its teachings.

Prayers stretch on for a long time, and he bumbles his way through the other recitations. He has to restrain himself from scoffing out loud when Sister Eusillina’s loud, clear voice intones, “‘Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.’”

Finally, it’s time for afternoon chores. Sister Eusillina sets him to work mending the fence around the garden while she climbs a ladder to wash the chantry windows and clean the eaves, remaining close enough to keep an eye on him in case he makes trouble. Mother Fayette stays in the chapel to continue giving benedictions.

As Dorian kneels on the ground, wrestling to straighten a fence post that has somehow been jammed into a slant, a shadow falls over him.

“Well, now,” a deep, amused voice says. “What do we have here?”

Dorian looks up. And up, and up, and up.

A massive Qunari looms over him, with broad horns and a scarred face. He’s got an eyepatch over one eye, a war axe strapped to his back, and his huge, muscle-bound chest is clothed only in a leather harness, baring his obvious strength to the world.

Dorian is so exhausted and frustrated with his circumstances that he barely has the energy to be surprised at this new turn of events. Of course there’s a Qunari in the middle of fucking nowhere Orlais. Of course there is.

“Can I help you?” he drawls.

The Qunari’s lips turn up in a slow smile.

“Not very welcoming for a chantry man, are you?” he says.

“I’m a bit busy,” Dorian says. Then, somewhat sarcastically, he adds, “If you’re seeking spiritual counsel, Mother Fayette is in the chapel.”

“And what if I _am_ seeking spiritual counsel?” the Qunari asks lightly.

“Then, as I’ve said, I’m busy,” Dorian repeats. He points toward the chantry. “The chapel’s right over there. If you get lost, I’m certain our dear Sister Eusillina will be most amenable to showing you the way. She can even hold your hand, if you like, although I wouldn’t recommend it. The claws, you see.”

“Chapel’s kinda crowded for my tastes,” the Qunari says. “It makes a guy uncomfortable when he’s trying to commune with the Maker and His Bride and everyone in the room can’t stop staring.”

“I can’t imagine why they’d do that.”

The Qunari’s one eyelid lowers halfway into a smug, calculating look. He examines Dorian for a long moment, and the sweat begins to gather at the back of Dorian’s neck. Then the Qunari reaches out with one hand, grabs the stubborn fence post, and jerks it upright in one swift motion.

Dorian swallows.

“There,” the Qunari says. “Now you’re not too busy.”

“There’s still the rest of the fence,” Dorian says. “I can’t very well neglect my duties to the chantry for the sake of one man, no matter how - ” He glances at the Qunari’s enormous biceps. “ - devout.”

“That’s an interesting accent you have there, Brother…” the Qunari says, ignoring him.

“Ladislaw,” Dorian finishes for him.

If possible, the Qunari’s smile grows wider.

“Brother Ladislaw,” he says. “Your accent doesn’t sound Orlesian. North, maybe.”

“As a matter of fact,” Dorian says, “I’m from the Free Marches.”

“I’m from up north, myself,” the Qunari says. “Nevarra. Can’t say I’m not surprised to find a Marcher all the way out here in Orlais. What brings you south, Brother?”

“The Maker’s will, surely,” Dorian replies. “Who am I to ignore His call, no matter where it might take me? And I could say the same for you.”

“It must also be the Maker’s will,” the Qunari responds. “Though I’ve found my holy calling on another path. Name’s The Iron Bull. I’m the captain of a mercenary band - the Bull’s Chargers.”

Dorian does a very fast mental inventory of every swear word he knows, which turns out to be quite a lot.

“That _is_ a strange form for the Maker’s will to take,” he says tightly.

“The Maker works in mysterious ways,” the Iron Bull says cheerfully.

“Verily,” Dorian replies with narrowed eyes.

“Brother Ladislaw!” Sister Eusillina shrieks, nearly shattering his eardrums. “You had better not be slacking off, or may the Maker be my sword - !”

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Dorian curses, turning to glare over his shoulder. “That demonic - ”

He cuts himself off and glances up at the Bull again. The Iron Bull looks positively delighted. Dorian clears his throat.

“And may the Maker be _your_ sword, the Iron Bull,” he says. “And your beacon and your shield for he who walks in the Maker’s Light shall have no fear of death etcetera etcetera. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Then he turns and beats a hasty retreat.

Dorian’s not sure why the Iron Bull doesn’t just knock him over the head and drag him out of the chantry, all the way back to Tevinter. He assumes it has something to do with how amused he’d been to find Dorian dressed like a cleric, working in the yard. It’s not a mercy he’s willing to stake his life on.

He sweats all through meal preparation, trying to find a way to slip away unnoticed. Of course, there isn’t one in the small, crowded chantry. His nerves ratchet up even more when the food line forms and he sees the Bull at the back of it, towering over everyone else.

When he makes it to the front and holds out his bowl for Dorian, Dorian leans forward to hiss at him, “What are you doing? This is for the needy!”

“I’m down on my luck,” the Iron Bull says solemnly.

“Oh, is that so?” Dorian sneers. “Not a very good mercenary, then, are you?”

“Brother Ladislaw,” a stern voice scolds him.

Dorian draws back, surprised, because it’s come from Mother Fayette. Her eyes are surprisingly clear as she gazes up at him.

“We never turn away those who come seeking Andraste’s blessings with open hands and open hearts,” she says.

Strangely shamed, Dorian’s shoulders slump. He ladles out a portion of stew for the Bull.

“May Andraste’s blessings go with you, the Iron Bull,” he mumbles.

“And with you, Brother,” the Bull says serenely. He raises his bowl in a slight toast to Mother Fayette. “Mother.”

Then he takes his food and quietly goes.

It’s probably bad form to knock out a cleric and drag him from a chantry in the middle of a charity meal service, even for a big brute like that. Even if he’s not really a cleric. For the moment it seems Dorian has the protection of the chantry.

Not that he’s any less eager to leave. He needs to get out of here, now more than ever, while the Bull is still patiently playing whatever game he’s playing.

Luckily, it’s his turn to take the vigil.

Dorian barely notices the flavorless gruel he eats for supper that night, and goes through the motions of the evening’s routine, cleaning and praying as nervous energy bubbles under his skin.

Sister Eusillina gives him a stern rundown of everything he is and isn’t supposed to do. Then, once he’s repeated everything back to her satisfaction, she stands for a long moment, eyeing him with suspicion. Dorian’s not sure if she’s worked out his plan to run or if she suspects him of some other nefarious crime - sleeping on the job, maybe.

Either way, she finally shoves a copy of the Canticle of Transfigurations into his hands and says, “Transfigurations 1:4 may be of some interest to you, Brother Ladislaw.” Then, like a curse or a warning, she adds, “I shall see you in the morning.”

Dorian waits for her to retreat to the bedroom before he opens the book.

“‘Those who bear false witness and work to deceive others, know this:’” he reads, “‘There is but one Truth. All things are known to our Maker and He shall judge their lies.’ Oh, yes, I see, very clever, Sister. As if I’m not the one who tried to tell you straight away you had the wrong man.” He scoffs and snaps the book shut. “‘He shall judge their lies.’ Honestly.” He looks around the empty chapel, illuminated only by the flickering glow of many candles. “At least what she said about nasty, evil mages receiving no rest is true.”

He sets the book down on one of the pews and turns, finally, to make his escape.

The Iron Bull is standing in the doorway.

Dorian freezes like a halla in the glare of a dragon’s breath.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” the Bull says with a smile like a knife. “I prefer to worship at night, you see, when there are fewer people around.”

“Ye-es,” Dorian says warily, watching him for any sudden movements. “I do remember you saying something about not liking witnesses - sorry, crowds.”

The Bull walks toward him. Dorian tenses and then prepares to defend himself, arms ready to rise, knees subtly bent. But then the Bull keeps walking, passes Dorian completely, and sinks to his knees at the statue of Andraste’s feet, hands clasped together and eyes closed.

Dorian blinks at the back of his head.

For a moment, he almost asks the Bull what in Thedas he thinks he’s doing. Then he shakes himself and decides that now is as good as time as any to make for the door.

“Brother Ladislaw,” the Bull calls, looking up from his apparent prayer. “Would you indulge me in conversation on a few things?”

Dorian stops in his progress, frustration coursing through him. Schooling his expression, he turns back around.

“That is the reason I’m here, awake at an hour even Andraste used for sleeping,” he says. “To indulge the whims of whatever misguided soul comes wandering through these hallowed doors, seeking my truly indispensable advice.”

“Y’know, I’ve been wondering,” the Bull says, ignoring the acerbic tone. “How’s a guy as pretty as you end up stuck in a place like this?”

Dorian splutters wordlessly for a few seconds, starting and stopping several incoherent responses, before he finally regains control.

Imperiously, he huffs, “Accurate as your observational skills have proven, despite your obvious handicap - ”

“Good one,” the Bull says appreciatively. “Unclear if you mean my eye or my taste. Subtle.”

“ - we have already discussed the matter of my presence in Orlais. Distracting though my admittedly flawless visage may be, it is hardly appropriate conversational material for a house of prayer. I must ask that you limit your inquiries to topics more befitting of a chantry.”

“Sure thing, big guy,” the Bull says so easily and with such a winning smile that Dorian has to do a quick replay of what he’s just said.

Kaffas.

“Here’s a question of faith for you,” the Bull starts. “How do you think the Maker feels about killing people?”

Perfect.

“Given the fact that Andraste herself was a warrior,” Dorian says cautiously, “I don’t believe he’s overly concerned.”

“Yeah, but I’ve killed a whole lot of people,” the Bull says, climbing to his feet, all seven or eight of it. “It’s been on my mind since I converted. Not like I intend to stop, but it is enough to make a guy worry about the state of his immortal soul.”

“And how exactly did you convert to Andrastianism, Bull?” Dorian asks, neatly sidestepping the murder conversation. “I can’t imagine the Qun was very happy.”

“I had what can only be described as a vision,” the Bull says.

“Did you?” Dorian asks flatly.

“It was a real miracle. I’ve never seen anything like it. After that, how could I not believe in the Maker’s power?”

“If Andraste came to you in a dream, I may have to break your heart by informing you that it was likely a demon,” Dorian says. “If she comes back with offers, just say no.”

“Nah, if it was a demon she would’a had her tits out,” the Bull says.

Dorian works hard to bite back a laugh that absolutely should not be bubbling out of a Chantry Brother’s throat. He’s not entirely successful.

“You can’t blaspheme in a chantry, you incorrigible brute,” he scolds with half a smile.

The Iron Bull grins. Then he looks a little thoughtful.

“I find it interesting that you think the Qun necessarily precludes Andrastianism or belief in the Maker,” he says.

“Doesn’t it?” Dorian asks.

“Not necessarily,” the Bull says. “Some of the concepts line up pretty nicely, actually.”

“You mean their treatment of magic,” Dorian says. He should have known.

“That, too, I guess, but not entirely,” the Bull says. “There are a lot of similar passages about survival, struggle, endurance, isolation. For all of our differences, those who live under the Qun and those in the south have remarkably similar feelings about spiritual strength. The Chant says: ‘I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here.’ And the Qun says: ‘Solitude is illusion. Alone in the darkness, I was surrounded on all sides. The starlight dripped from the petals of cactus flowers, a chorus of insects sang across the dunes.’”

Dorian blinks, surprised at this careful recitation. The Bull appears to have genuinely thought this over.

“That’s rather lovely,” Dorian says honestly. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the Qun. I suppose that’s my own failing. It never occurred to me that it might have something in common with my own beliefs.” Such as they may be.

“Nah, it’s not something a lot of people think about, even Qunari,” the Bull says. “Maybe some of the Viddathari, but just as likely not - lots of them never believed in the Maker in the first place. But it’s mostly social and political factors that have kept the two doctrines apart. Who knows? Maybe they are ultimately incompatible. Either way, it’s something to consider.”

Dorian is just beginning to think he may have misjudged the Iron Bull, when the Bull casually adds, “I’ve even heard it said that Havard the Aegis was a Qunari.”

“Oh, now that seems quite unlikely,” Dorian says, incredulous.

“I find your quick dismissal hurtful, Brother,” the Bull says, in that same placid tone. “Don’t you believe that there’s room in the Chant of Light for all the Maker’s creations?”

“Yes, but - ”

“Andraste fought alongside even the elves, after all,” the Bull says.

“The Canticle of Shartan is not - ”

“And while some in the Chantry may continue to harbor fear and hatred in their hearts, which should only be filled with the Maker’s infinite grace,” the Bull continues, “learned and progressive men such as ourselves can agree that Andraste’s blessing extends to all those who would accept it, regardless of their race or country of origin, and that she herself fought alongside any who would lend their blades to her cause.”

“Yes, fine,” Dorian relents at last, because he couldn’t have cared less if Andraste was a nug in a bad wig. “Whatever you say.”

“So you agree,” the Bull says, his eye gleaming, “that it’s possible that Havard the Aegis was a Qunari.”

“Just don’t let Sister Eusillina hear you say it,” Dorian says. “Or she’ll have us both strung up for heresy.”

“Right,” the Bull says. “You mentioned the claws.”

Dorian smiles, catches himself, and puts his hands sternly on his hips.

“Very well,” he says. “If that’s all you wished to discuss - ”

“I think I’ll stick around for a while,” the Bull says. “Pray. Contemplate my place in the Maker’s plan. That sort of thing.” He makes a show of getting comfortable on one of the pews.

“I see,” Dorian says.

“Yeah, but don’t feel like you have to cater to me,” the Bull says. “I’ll probably take a long time. Could even be all night, if I’m feeling particularly spiritual.”

“And are you feeling particularly spiritual?”

The Iron Bull gives Dorian a long, slow once over, and says, “I will be if the Maker keeps sending me visions.”

Dorian, at a loss for what else to do, spins around and storms away.

“I’m having another one!” the Bull calls after him.

Escape foiled, Dorian retreats to the kitchen, where he can keep one eye on the Iron Bull while remaining shielded from his presence.

He’s not entirely sure why the Iron Bull doesn’t just get this over with, why he keeps dragging out this game of cat and mouse. Or, now that he thinks about it, where the bounty hunters from before are, not to mention the Bull’s supposed mercenary band. Perhaps he thinks he’s enough to take Dorian on alone.

If that’s the case, then he’s in for severe disappointment when the time finally comes. Dorian isn’t about to take capture lying down. He won’t let his father take him back, won’t let him -

Dorian will fight to the last breath, if necessary.

The Iron Bull does, however, end up spending the whole night in the chantry, appearing neither bored nor uncomfortable, even after sitting in the same place for hours on end. He occasionally tries to bait Dorian into conversation - or argument - but Dorian has grown wary, and gives only short answers.

At last, dawn arrives. The Iron Bull stands up and stretches.

“That’s enough prayer for one night, I think,” he says. “Thanks for letting me stay, big guy. See you around.”

Almost as soon as the Bull has left, the door to the bedroom opens, and Sister Eusillina emerges. She blinks at Dorian, as if taken aback to see he’s still there. If he’s expecting some kind of reward for his obedience, however, he is quickly disabused of this notion.

“I hope you’re ready to work,” she says. “Don’t think that just because you haven’t slept I’ll go easy on you. We all pull our weight equally around here.”

“Yes, Sister,” Dorian says dryly. “There’s a reason I ask only for the Maker’s mercy, and never for yours.”

Sister Eusillina harrumphs and Mother Fayette yawns, but Dorian thinks he spies a smile hidden behind her hand.

True to her word, the Sister puts Dorian to work right away. He spends the morning toiling in the muddy garden, and only gets a few brief moments to wash the dirt away with a bucket of freezing water before he’s ushered into the chapel for the day’s prayers.

His recitations are no better than the day before, especially since Mother Fayette has today chosen verses from the exceptionally boring parts of Threnodies - not even any of the juicy passages with blood magic or darkspawn in them. He prepares himself for another afternoon of aloof hovering, only to find that the hesitancy of the parishioners to seek his counsel has faded after a single day.

“Oh, Brother Ladislaw,” a young woman says, approaching him. “Please give me your guidance.”

“I am at your service, child,” Dorian says, hiding his terror. “Tell me what troubles you. Unburden your worries at the feet of Andraste, that she may grant you peace.”

“Ever since my older sister married and left home, everything’s gone wrong,” she says. “She’s so much smarter and better at everything than me, and now that she’s not here I can’t get anything right. I made an awful mess of the kitchen this morning and even Mother was cross with me. I try to get it sorted out, but nothing works. I know it’s wrong of me, but I can’t help but wish that my sister had never married, that she would come back home and never leave.”

Dorian’s not entirely sure what any of that has to do with the Maker. It sounds like a fairly normal, mundane problem that will go away with time, no divine intercession required. 

“Well, child,” he begins. “Er, what was your name?”

“Candice,” she says.

“Candice,” he says. “I think you will find that there are very few people who naturally excel at everything they try, although some are indeed blessed in this way. I’m speaking abstractly, of course, and not from personal experience. As a holy man, that would be prideful and therefore quite wrong of me.”

Candice squints at him.

“Yes, well,” Dorian hurries on. “What I mean to say is, sometimes people who seem to have everything worked out perfectly only appear that way because you never saw them struggle to get things in order. I’m sure your sister made just as many mistakes when she was learning, and now makes new mistakes in her new home. But she had your parents, and then you, and now her husband to help her out. Now it’s your turn to learn, but you needn’t do so alone. Your mother, for one, even though she might lose her temper sometimes. Others, too.” Dorian suddenly remembers that he’s supposed to be a cleric and adds, “The Maker as well, of course. It’s like the Chant of Light tells us: Solitude is illusion.”

Candice’s brows wrinkle in confusion.

“Does the Chant say that?” she asks. “In what verse?”

“I may be paraphrasing,” Dorian says.

Mother Fayette chooses this timely moment to sweep in and rescue him.

“My dear, sweet Candice,” she rasps, tottering over to join them. “Look at your pretty face. Oh, my child, I am so proud of how you’ve grown. But you’re not finished yet. Not yet. Come with me. Yes, right this way. Let us recite from the Canticle of Trials together and think on how to have patience with those we love, counting ourselves among that number.”

Dorian watches them go, Candice softly beaming down at the elderly Mother. When he looks for Sister Eusillina, she’s glaring at him. But then, she always seems to be doing that.

Later, knee-deep in yams and rutabagas and Maker knows what else, he finds himself reflecting, oddly enough (or maybe not that oddly, all things considered), on his own solitude. It’s less of a carefully considered train of thought and more of a vague melancholy. He’s thinking of all the people he misses back in Tevinter, the many, many more he’s managed to drive away, and the loneliness he’s felt since fleeing south. Of course, his situation is nothing at all like Candice’s little growing pains - much of his isolation has been a matter of sheer practicality - but perhaps if he closes his eyes he will find himself much less alone than he previously thought.

Yes, he thinks, eyes sliding shut. He has the yams, and the rutabagas, and the mud, and the worms, and Sister Eusillina angrily beating out the curtains (likely picturing Dorian as she does so), and he also has -

Dorian tentatively opens one eye and looks up.

The Iron Bull is back.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” he asks the Bull, and really means, ‘don’t you get tired of bothering me?’

“I don’t need much when I’m invigorated with holy fervor,” the Bull says. “The Maker has seen fit to bless me with remarkable stamina.”

“I’m sure he has,” Dorian says, and isn’t sure if he means it to sound sarcastic or salacious.

The Bull decides for him, grinning slyly in response.

“Gotta say, you look good like that,” he says.

“If you say, ‘on your knees’ - ” Dorian warns.

“Nah, I meant with your eyes closed,” the Bull says. “You looked all peaceful. Usually you just look annoyed or anxious.”

“That’s only when you’re around,” Dorian says.

“Is it?” the Bull asks. Without waiting for Dorian to respond, he goes right on with, “Although, now that you mention it - ”

“Bull - ”

“ - you do look pretty good - ”

“ _Bull_ \- ”

“ - on your - ”

“ _Bull, what are you doing here?_ ” Dorian snaps.

The Iron Bull blinks at him, taken aback.

“You come here,” Dorian says, unable to stop now that he’s started, “and you flirt and you antagonize and maybe pray - I haven’t decided if you’re being genuine about that or not - and you don’t _do_ anything, and I don’t understand _why_.”

“Do you want me to do something?” the Bull asks, like it’s that simple.

Dorian stares at him and tries to work out what he means. Does he mean, ‘do you want me to do my job and cart you back to Tevinter like a sack of rutabagas?’ Or does he mean, ‘do you want me to put my money where my mouth is and do terrible, blasphemous things in the chantry garden with you?’ Or does he mean, ‘do you want me to pray earnestly to the Maker for forgiveness for my many, no doubt heinous sins?’ Or does he mean something else that Dorian hasn’t even thought of yet?

Dorian licks his lip.

“That question is a trap,” he finally decides.

“That’s your problem, Brother Ladislaw,” the Bull says, having the gall to look sad, of all things. “You think everything’s a trap.”

Dorian stands up, tears off his gardening gloves, and throws them down onto the dirt.

“That’s because it is!” he snaps.

Then he does what Dorian Pavus does best. He runs away.

He’s not even sure why he’s so angry. It’s not like he even knows the Iron Bull. They only met yesterday, and have spent every instant since prodding at each other. It’s not like he has any particular expectations, or any right to them. It’s just the way the Bull looked at him - that sad frown. Pity. That’s what it is. Here he is, looming over Dorian, a constant threat to his freedom and literal mental autonomy, and he has the nerve to - to feel _sorry_ for Dorian.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he curses under his breath, and goes willingly to find Sister Eusillina, which really might be a new kind of Blight omen.

The Iron Bull is absent from the food line tonight, which is for the best. Dorian is exhausted, he realizes, from stress and lack of sleep. He thinks there’s not much left of his defenses, mental or physical. He has his mana, untapped since he arrived at the chantry, but it’s a sloppy, dangerous thing to rely on.

He really has to go tonight, to find somewhere safe to hole up until all his father’s lackeys have cleared, somewhere he can sleep and recuperate. Then he’ll continue heading for Val Royeaux. It’s a big city, full of people wearing masks - an easy place to get lost for a while, and also to find a hot bath.

It shouldn’t be hard to sneak past Mother Fayette. Maybe he’ll even find her asleep at the pulpit, and, if not, he can always cast a very gentle sleeping spell on her. He’ll feel bad about it, but what else can he do?

After he’s sure that Sister Eusillina is fast asleep (not hard to discern thanks to her snoring), Dorian gets up and once again creeps into the chapel. Mother Fayette, unfortunately, is not asleep.

“Brother Ladislaw,” she calls to him.

“Mother Fayette,” he greets congenially. “I was just going for a stroll. There’s nothing like a lungful of crisp, midnight air to get you ready for sleep.”

Alright, Dorian thinks. You can do this. Just a nice, easy sleeping spell. No harm done.

“Come sit with me awhile, Brother,” Mother Fayette calls. “Keep an old woman company on a lonely night.”

“Of course, Mother,” Dorian says. “I would be delighted to.”

Dorian takes a seat next to her on the little wooden pew, preparing himself to cast. This way, he can catch her if she starts to fall, and there will be no risk whatsoever of her cracking her ancient skull open.

“Oh, Brother,” Mother Fayette says in a voice filled with immense sadness. 

She takes his hand in hers. He lets the magic fizzle harmlessly out of it.

“Some nights my heart is filled with such sorrow,” she says. “I can hardly bear the burden of so many sins. And yet I must. That is my punishment, small though it may be.”

Dorian squeezes her hand gently.

“I can’t imagine what sins would trouble a woman like you,” he says. “You have been nothing but kind, even to me, though I hardly deserve it.”

“I have tried,” Mother Fayette says. She is staring up at the impassive, carved face of Andraste. Her tiny eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “For many years, I have tried. Even so, I can’t forget…” She trails off, lost in old memories, old regrets. Then, startling slightly, she turns to Dorian. “But why should you not deserve kindness, Brother?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Dorian says wryly, “but I don’t make a very good cleric. Exceptional and multifarious though my talents may be, I fear that spirituality may not be among them.”

“And why should that matter?” Mother Fayette asks with that same unexpected sharpness she had shown the day before. “It’s enough that you’re here, isn’t it? It’s enough that you try.”

And once again, Dorian feels shame. He drops her hand, pulling his own into his lap, and looks down at them.

“I’m not a very good man, Mother,” he says softly. “Of my many aforementioned talents, my greatest seems to be disappointing those who believe in me.”

“Oh, shush,” Mother Fayette says. “Shush, child.” She presses one hand to his cheek. Her skin is surprisingly warm in the cold night air, and he thinks it must be because she keeps her hands always clasped together in prayer. “Whatever weighs on your heart, Andraste cares not. For she said, ‘All sins are forgiven. All crimes are pardoned. Let no soul harbor guilt.’ You could never disappoint her, child, and she believes in you more than anyone else.”

Dorian, who hardly believes at all, and doesn’t in the least deserve her gentle touch, gives her a small, warm smile.

“If that is true, Mother,” he says, “then it is for you as well.”

Mother Fayette looks briefly surprised again, and then she smiles, too, a profound peace falling over her. The tears finally slip free, zig-zagging across her wrinkled cheeks, the topography of a long, hard life.

“There,” she says quietly, taking his hand again. “There. Not so bad at all, are you?”

Dorian sits with her for a long time, his escape plan forgotten.

Of course, in the morning he rises from a third night of hardly any sleep to find himself utterly exhausted in both mind and body.

Maybe that’s why he’s caught off guard in the soft dawn light when he goes to empty the chamber pot - his least favorite task so far - and walks straight into an ambush.

Someone barrels into his side. He drops the chamber pot, spilling its contents in a disgusting spray across the ground, and whips his hands up, magic crackling to life. He manages to get off a single lightning bolt into his attacker’s shoulder before there’s a sudden, horrible absence, like all the air has been punched out of his lungs.

He reflexively sucks in a breath, but his breathing is normal - it’s his magic that’s gone, and a numb emptiness hangs in its place, pressing down on him from all sides. He reaches blindly into it, desperately, but the space is so vast it’s suffocating.

Above him - because he’s sunken to his knees in shock - one of the four bounty hunters from the tavern gives him what passes as a smile exclusively in dark alleyways and the Magisterium.

“First time being Silenced, huh?” he asks.

Vishante kaffas, the tavern peasant had been wrong. They did have a templar.

Then he’s being manhandled to the ground. (Far from the chamber pot disaster, thank the Maker, at least, for small mercies.)

“You gave us quite the run around,” the templar says. “Had us nearly all the way to Val Chevin before we realized our mistake.”

The other three thugs fall in beside him. One of them puts Dorian’s hands in iron manacles. The other ties his feet together with ropes. The third one is ominously holding a burlap sack, which Dorian really hopes, but somehow doubts, has been washed since their last violent kidnapping.

“We caught up to Manfred on the road,” the templar says. “Or should I say, the real Brother Ladislaw.”

“He prefers to be called Laddy,” Dorian informs them helpfully.

“And you prefer to be called Dorian Pavus, don’t you?” the thug with the bag says.

Dorian’s brain snags on something else.

“Hold on a moment,” he says. “Laddy left the tavern fifteen minutes before you, and it took you that long to catch up to him? I knew you boys didn’t look like the sharpest pricks in the - _urk!_ ”

The templar puts a hand around his neck and jerks him upright. Then the bag is going over his head. He was right, they hadn’t washed it. He hopes the horrible smell is just a sweat odor and not from vomit or something worse.

Someone slings Dorian over their shoulder, not at all gently, and then they’re moving.

“You do realize,” Dorian says, voice muffled through the bag, “that from the outside this looks like you’re the worst sort of ruffians imaginable, kidnapping an innocent chantry cleric.”

“Yeah, but you’re not a cleric,” the thug carrying him says, rather missing the point. “You’re a heretic and a blood mage.”

Dorian lets out an involuntary, hysterical bark of laughter.

“Me?” he laughs. “A blood mage? You’ve got it all backward, you bumbling savages. The blood mage is your employer!”

“Keep talking, Pavus,” the thug says. “See what it gets you.”

So this is it, Dorian thinks morosely.

At least it isn’t the Iron Bull. That would be even worse, no matter how much he’s been bracing for the inevitability.

Come to think of it, maybe the Bull doesn’t have anything to do with these lowlifes after all, if they had to go all the way to Val Chevin to work it out, and the Bull has been here the whole time. It’s almost a relief.

Except, then, what had the Bull been doing at the chantry bothering Dorian? Had he just spotted a ‘Vint and decided to poke at it? That seems unlikely. Had his father hired two different groups to retrieve him?

Well, he’ll have plenty of time to puzzle it out on the road to Tevinter, anyway.

Not that he’s giving up. The Silencing will wear off. They’ll reapply it, but there will be gaps, moments when he has a chance to slip free from its noose. And maybe if they’re too focused on suppressing his magic, he’ll be able to use more conventional means. He can try to steal a dagger - put it in the templar first. Hopefully then the Silence will break and he can deal with the others in his preferred manner.

Yes, that could work. And if he doesn’t get a chance to go on the offensive, he can find a way to give them the slip. They certainly aren’t the most intelligent band of brothers - which honestly might say something about how sloppy Dorian has been in covering his tracks.

Mistakes made are lessons learned, or so they say.

He won’t give up. And he won’t be going back to his father. No matter what.

Dorian bounces uncomfortably down the road for a while, listening to the thugs make grunted conversation on about the level you might expect from gentlemen such as these. Their favorite words seem to be ‘nugshit’ and ‘tits.’ He concentrates on trying to reach his magic, to brush his fingers against it through the void. The moment it starts to return to him, he wants to know. 

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been moving - more than an hour, at least - when he finally feels a familiar, prickling warmth in his fingertips.

He makes sure not to react, in case he alerts his captors, and slowly breathes life back into that spark, nurturing it, feeding it, until it’s warming his whole body. Somehow the thugs don’t think about Silencing him again - Dorian suspects he’s getting his magic back much faster than he should. Whatever the reason, his magic has almost completely returned when something roars, and the thugs start yelling back.

There’s a whirl of confusion as Dorian is jostled about. He hears incoherent shouting, a wet meaty sound, and then he’s being dropped. He tumbles to the dirt, feeling the bruises form before he even hits the ground.

All around him, there is chaos. It sounds like the thugs are being attacked by a bear. 

What an awful way to go, Dorian thinks. Lying on the ground, blind and immobile, waiting to be eaten by some giant, invisible beast. Not at all the way someone as spectacular as Dorian Pavus deserves to die, but there you have it. Few people get to choose their endings, and even fewer get the dignity of a well deserved death.

If he gets eaten by a bear, he sincerely hopes Maevaris never finds out. She’d find it hilarious.

But it won’t happen today. His magic has finally finished seeping back in. 

The last of the fighting sounds drop away. All that’s left are heavy footsteps heading toward him. With a deft flick of his wrist, Dorian grabs at the veil, and _twists_. The clanking of metal announces several suits of armor moving in concert. 

The footsteps stop.

Dorian knows without seeing that all four of the thug’s corpses have now climbed to their feet, lifeless puppets, preparing to attack.

“Whoa, easy there,” a familiar voice says. “Not gonna lie, that’s creepy as fuck.”

Confused, Dorian falters. He lets go. The four bodies thud back onto the ground.

“Who’s there?” he calls.

The footsteps come even closer, and then the bag is pulled from his head. Dorian blinks into the bright light, chasing the spots from his eyes.

“...Bull?” he asks as the large shape kneeling over him comes into focus.

“You alright, big guy?” the Iron Bull asks. He begins fiddling with the manacles behind Dorian’s back. 

“Mortally wounded by humiliation,” Dorian confesses. “I’ve been bested by the dumbest hired thugs in all of Thedas, and my pride shall never recover. You may as well throw my body on the pyre and have my ashes scattered in the Silent Plains.”

“Well, if that’s all,” the Bull says.

The manacles snap free and Dorian tries to shake the feeling back into his hands, which have gone a little numb.

“How did you find me?” Dorian asks.

“They carried a chantry cleric straight through the middle of town,” the Bull says. “There was no shortage of eager witnesses.”

Dorian already covered how embarrassed he is to have been successfully captured by idiots, so he instead says, “I’m not a cleric.”

“Yeah,” the Bull says dryly. “I had that worked out from the moment I first saw you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dorian says. “There’s no way that’s true.”

“It’s like I said,” the Bull says, “you’re too pretty to be a cleric. Plus, you’re soft in all the wrong places - obviously not used to real manual labor. That has nobility all over it. You have a mage’s build, not a warrior’s, and, well, you ‘Vints just have a way of holding yourselves. I knew before you even opened your mouth you were some Tevinter Altus in disguise.”

Dorian scowls at him.

“There’s no way you knew all that,” he accuses. “You could tell I was an Altus just by the way I held myself? What are you, the Great ‘Vint Detective?”

“Pretty much,” the Bull says. “I’m Ben Hassrath.”

Dorian takes a moment to process this.

“Of course,” he says. “Of course you are.”

He goes boneless, exhausted from almost no sleep and forcing his recovery from the Silencing, not to mention all the emotional jerk-arounds he’s been through these last few days.

“Very well,” he relents with a hollow little laugh. “What’s it to be? Back to my father or to Par Vollen? It turns out there really are fates worse than the one I had imagined.” 

The Bull stares down at him in confusion.

“I’m not taking you anywhere,” he says, “except back to the chantry, if that’s where you want to go.”

Dorian narrows his eyes back. 

“There’s no point in lying about it now.”

“This is what I’m talking about,” the Bull says, annoyed. “You always think everything’s a trap. Maybe you’ve had good reason - I’m starting to get the sense that you’ve had some hard turns in life - but is it really so difficult to believe that I’m not one of them?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dorian says. “You really expect me to believe a Ben Hassrath agent just happened across a runaway Tevinter mage by complete coincidence and that you had no ulterior motives whatsoever?”

“ _Yes_ ,” the Bull says back. “Sure, at first I wanted to know what you were up to, but I realized just as quickly that you were harmless.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“Yeah, I did,” the Bull says. “You couldn’t even keep your cleric act up for half a conversation. Plus, what kind of evil Tevinter plot involves getting browbeaten by a chantry Sister in an insignificant Orlesian country town?”

“But then, why?” Dorian asks. “Why did you stick around and keep talking to me and - ” He stares up at the Bull in befuddlement, then just repeats, “ _Why?_ ”

The Iron Bull quirks a smile.

“Because I like you,” he says. Like it’s that simple.

And maybe it really is.

Dorian slumps back, stunned.

“Whatever you’re running from,” the Bull says, moving to untie the bindings at Dorian’s feet, “you’re a good man.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Dorian asks numbly.

“Because I heard you in the chantry last night, calling yourself a bad one.”

Dorian swallows. He’s not sure how he feels knowing that the Bull eavesdropped on that conversation. Ben Hassrath, he recalls dully. But maybe that’s not all the Iron Bull is.

“Is that all it takes?” Dorian asks. “A little self-deprecation and regret?”

“No,” the Bull says. “You also care about people, and you try, even when it doesn’t feel like it matters. You’re brave, and thoughtful, and clever, and I think you’re probably a pretty damn decent mage, too, aren’t you?”

“I’m an incredible mage,” Dorian says. “Keep going.”

The Bull grins.

“What, you want me to tell you how much I like your eyes?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Dorian says. “No one else in this barbaric wasteland seems to appreciate my many virtues.”

“Now that’s not true,” the Bull says. “Mother Fayette was pretty cut up when she noticed you were missing.”

Dorian is instantly concerned. That much stress could kill a woman that frail.

“Is she alright?” he asks.

“She’s fine, don’t worry,” the Bull says. “She’ll be better when she sees you in one piece. C’mon. Can you stand?”

He offers Dorian a hand.

Dorian hesitates only a beat. Then he takes it.

“Scared the crap out of me when you reanimated those bodies,” the Bull says, pulling him to his feet. “Didn’t expect that.”

“What, you didn’t work out that I was a necromancer based on the way I recited from the Canticle of Threnodies?” Dorian asks as they begin walking back toward town.

“Erudition,” the Bull says. “I would’ve had to hear you recite from the Canticle of Erudition.”

“‘The first of the Maker’s children watched across the Veil and grew jealous of life they could not feel, could not touch,’” Dorian recites. Having been written by Archon Hessarian, it’s one the most popular portions of the Chant in Tevinter. “‘In blackest envy were the demons born.’”

“That’s the one,” the Bull says. “It’s the way you put the stress on ‘touch’ instead of ‘feel.’ Gives it away every time.”

“Now I know you’re making it up,” Dorian says.

“Whatever makes you feel better,” the Bull says. He suddenly stops walking. “Hey. A skill like yours is pretty useful.”

“You have an aptitude for understatement, Bull,” Dorian says. “I may not be modest, but I also don’t make a habit of empty boasting.”

“I got that,” the Bull says. “What I mean is, not much use for it in a chantry, is there?”

“No, not really,” Dorian says slowly. “That kind of thing does tend to be frowned upon by the Chantry even more so than most forms of magic. But it’s not like I was planning to stay there.”

“Where were you planning to go?”

“Val Royeaux, I suppose,” Dorian says. “From there, I don’t know. I always land on my feet, eventually. In a year I’ll be filthy rich and sunning myself on the beach in Rivain, surrounded by strapping young pirates, all of them ready to fight to the death for my honor.”

“That does sound pretty good,” the Bull admits. “On the other hand, you could come with me.”

Dorian looks at him.

“With you?”

“Yeah, me and the Chargers - my mercenary band,” the Bull says. “We’ve been camped out nearby for the last week, waiting for word to come in about a potential job out at Lake Celestine. You should join up. We could use a guy like you.”

“What - really? You mean that?”

“Weren’t you the one who was just telling me what a wunderkind you are?” the Bull asks.

“I just mean - ” Dorian starts. “You wouldn’t mind? I’ve never worked as a mercenary before.”

“You’ll pick it up fast,” the Bull says. “And you’ll love the Chargers! My boys are the best there are. I’ve even got another ‘Vint. You’ll be at each other’s throats for months. It’ll be great.”

“Very well, then,” Dorian says with a lopsided smile. “Why not? I’ll join your Bull’s Chargers.”

They shake on it, and Dorian walks with something of a spring in his step all the way back to town.

Two figures are waiting outside the chantry, and they start forward as Dorian and the Bull approach.

“Brother Ladislaw!” Sister Eusillina cries angrily - although Dorian can almost detect a hint of underlying concern if he really strains. “What in the Maker’s name have you gotten yourself into!”

“An excellent adventure and a religious revelation,” Dorian says. “Mother Fayette, Sister Eusillina, I have come to bid you both farewell.”

“Brother Ladislaw - ” Sister Eusillina starts, her timbre dropping into a tone of threat.

“You shan’t convince me otherwise, no matter how much you cry and say you’ll miss me,” Dorian goes on. “The Maker has called me to another path - a lower purpose, as it were - and the time has come for me to listen to His command.”

“Brother Ladislaw - ” Sister Eusillina begins again.

“Oh, hush now, Sister,” Mother Fayette says. “Can’t you see the dear boy’s happy?”

Sister Eusillina snaps her mouth shut.

“Come, child, let me look at you,” Mother Fayette says.

Dorian obediently kneels so that she can take his face in hands, running her thumbs over his flushed cheekbones, and then the upturned corners of his mouth.

“There now,” she says, patting his cheek. “That’s much better.”

“I will never forget your kindness, Mother,” he says. “In fact, I shall name my firstborn after you. I swear it.”

Mother Fayette glances over Dorian’s shoulder at the Iron Bull.

“Well, I don’t think there’s much risk of that,” she says.

The Iron Bull roars with laughter as Sister Eusillina gasps, “Mother Fayette!”

“Good woman,” Dorian says with a grin. Rising, he turns to the gaping Sister. “Sister Eusillina, I’m not likely to forget you or your tenderness, either. And with that, I bid you both adieu.”

“May Andraste’s blessing go with you, child,” Mother Fayette says.

“And with you,” Dorian echoes.

He gives the little chantry one last look, and then turns to follow the Iron Bull on to other, different, although perhaps not greater things.

After a while of walking, they pause to get a drink of water from a stream. As Dorian peers down at his sadly battered reflection, from his mussed hair, to his skewed mustache, to Brother Ladislaw’s awful chantry robes, he remembers something else.

“I suppose I got you all wrong, in the end,” Dorian says to Bull. “You really are a devout Andrastian.”

“Oh, no, I’m definitely not,” the Bull says. “It was just fun to mess with you.”

Dorian stares at him blankly for several long beats, before his face scrunches up with annoyance.

“You insufferable man!” he snaps, lunging forward to get right up in the Bull’s face - or, rather, his chest. “Do you know how much stress you put me through? How much vital sleep I lost? If I find a single white hair - ”

“Yeah?” the Bull asks with a grin, one eyebrow cocked in a challenge. “What are you gonna do?”

“First thing’s first,” Dorian says. “Get me out of these Maker damned robes.”

And what can the Iron Bull do when faced with the Maker’s will, other than submit?

**Author's Note:**

> r-reach out and touch faith
> 
> additional tags: The Iron Bull’s Questionable Recruitment Methods, Dorian Pavus’s Three-Day-Long Panic Attack


End file.
